


Made Flesh

by rfsmiley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale is uncertain and Crowley is soft: pick your fighter, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, M/M, basically I put the tv and book canons in a blender and fished out pieces with a spoon, do I tag His Dark Materials if it's not a daemon?, heavy-handed symbolism, it doesn't count though because they're immortal, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/pseuds/rfsmiley
Summary: AU in which Crowley is two entities, and Aziraphale isn’t sure how he feels about either of them.





	1. The First 6,000 Years

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Во плоти](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285675) by [curious_Lissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curious_Lissa/pseuds/curious_Lissa)



> ^^Edit: curious_Lissa translated this into Russian!! Thank you so much!!! Also [available here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8355951).  
> ^^Edit: she has also done a BEAUTIFUL artwork for this story that has [actually made me lose my mind](https://curiouslissa.tumblr.com/post/187217946327/im-a-bit-late-for-fanfic-writers-appreciation). Please do go show it some love!!!!
> 
> *
> 
> I did something horribly stupid and wrote a fic detailing the arc of the Arrangement a month before we get expanded canon. Consequently I reserve the right to revise this post-show, although I doubt I actually will. Like the tags say, I basically put the tv and book canons in a blender and fished out pieces. Whatever! It's an AU!  
> I have no idea how to tag this.  
> The gargoyles on Notre Dame are a bit of an anachronism; they weren’t added until the 19th century. But, again, I point you to the fact that this is an AU. So ha.

 

*

In the beginning, there is an angel, a serpent, and … something else.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what it is, actually. The Animals have just been named, and yet this is unlike any of them. It is most like a cat, but – after another sidelong glance – he can see that it is decidedly not a cat.

For one thing, it has wings.

They are batlike, currently tucked securely against its back. Their folds are leathery, like the rest of the furless creature, and evilly colored, black as night. Silver shines on their tips, like the claws on the delicate small paws, or the protruding fangs defiling a long and ugly snout. Another glance, and he can see that the creature is also gaunt, gruesomely angular, with xylophone ribs and a pelvis that stands out from the skin. A spidery tail twitches as it sits, staring out over the garden.

Aziraphale finds it grotesque.

He watches it, and the comparatively elegant coils of the serpent, with apprehension. Both radiate a sense of mischief. When he probes with his Grace, the knowledge comes immediately, clear and cold: they are the same sort of being.  Despite the vast difference of shape, these two entities are both demons, albeit rendered in flesh and scale. They are the first ones he's ever seen, and the revelation makes him itch.

He wonders if he should leave. Better for them to be alone. Maybe? Probably.

And then the serpent speaks to him.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

“I’m sorry?” says Aziraphale. He is caught completely off guard. He is an _angel_. Why would it speak to him? They can have nothing to say to one other.

“I _said,_ ” says the other dryly, “That went down like a lead balloon.”

“Ah.”

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me,” it confides, inclining its head conspiratorially. “First offense and everything.”

Flummoxed, Aziraphale realizes that it is speaking only to him, ignoring the horrifying shape at its side. Well, bully for it; he himself cannot pretend the creature isn’t there. The thing is _creepy,_ and he keeps glancing between the two of them, the serpent and the four-legged fiend, even though the latter remains silent. Returning his gaze, its eyes sparkle with an irreverent interest, an expression that borders amusement. It appears to sense his distaste.

Aziraphale frowns. They likely have some sort of agenda. Perhaps they are trying to disarm him somehow, lull him into a false sense of security before an attack. He has already revealed that his sword is gone. That confession was probably foolish, and he stiffens at the thought.

He glares back at the creature. Daring it to act.

It has the gall to yawn at him.

His distraction is too obvious. The serpent stops talking and arcs away from him, staring into the garden, trying to see what is dividing his attention. As it does, another mystery unfolds: from its unseeing eyes and the sway of its bewildered head, Aziraphale gleans that it cannot even perceive the presence of the second creature. A thrill of apprehension goes through him, the world’s inaugural gooseflesh beading on his arms. How can it not see the other? That can’t be normal, surely?

But it is only the eighth day of Creation. He has no one to ask. 

The two demons do resemble each other, queer though that is. They have the same dark hue, the same baleful golden eyes. Perhaps they are some kind of kin. Against his better judgment, he opens his mouth – and then, unsure of himself, he hesitates. If the snake can’t see it, after all, there is really nothing to say.

Consequently, when Crawly turns back to him, the angel resolutely keeps his gaze from wandering. He doesn't allow himself to look back at the other until their departure, whereupon they leave together, the serpent and the beast, slinking away through the glossy wet leaves as the storm finally abates.

Aziraphale feels a deep disquiet, watching them go.

*

He doesn’t deliberately look for either of them, of course, but the currents of human history funnel them towards the same deltas, and they run into each other again and again. All three of them stand on the deck of the Ark together, for example, waiting for a sprig of olive to herald the end of the floods. They meet again in Midian, as a prophet descends from Mount Horeb, given instruction by a burning bush. Then again, at the Red Sea. Then at David’s coronation. Aziraphale is present for it all, and so are the two impudent demons from Eden.

He is also present when, on a humid night in Samaria, the one now calling himself Crowley is brutally stoned to death.

It isn’t the first time, or so he’s heard. Occasionally, people whisper of a yellow-eyed figure that travels from city to city; in Egypt, where Aziraphale was last working, there was even a name for such creatures, “wanderers” tasked with mischief, possession, and plague. Humans coach each other to kill them whenever possible, and Aziraphale hears of a few successes. He muses that it does seem unfair to task someone with sin and corruption and then give them reptilian eyes. Bit of a disadvantage, that. He can understand the impulse to stamp out something with eyes like that.

But this is the first time he’s witnessed the impulse in action.

Of course, he’s not sure of what he’s seeing, not immediately. He simply stumbles upon a knot of furious people in the street, shouting at each other and at some victim in their midst. After several minutes, the crowd parts enough for Aziraphale to catch a glimpse of desperate yellow eyes and scarlet hair. Then others come running, adding to the mayhem, obstructing his view.

The angel pauses. Understanding floods him, and hidden in its depths is a powerful undertow of uncertainty. In tandem, they threaten to drown him.

They’re going to murder Crowley. That much is clear. His Grace can read the collective intent.

He doesn’t know, however, what to _do_ about it _._

“It is Belial,” a woman screams. There is a thud and a crash. “Kill it!”

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” says Crowley, but it isn’t commanding. His voice is raw with fear.

“Be silent, Serpent Eyes,” says someone else, followed by a meaty sound of impact.

Aziraphale is still wavering. It’s not like the humans are wrong, he tells himself. Crowley is an agent of Hell. Crowley is, well, _evil._ And his discorporation would be a gift, would permit months of divine work to go unchecked. And, _and,_ let’s not forget this bit: Heaven would certainly disapprove if he intervened. An angel’s Grace, Aziraphale feels sure, is not meant for the salvation of the already damned.

He is breathing hard, clenching his fists, when he hears Crowley yelp again. He begins to back away. Perhaps if he just left – that would be all right, wouldn’t it? He isn’t supposed to witness this; he really shouldn’t be here for this. He doesn’t _want_ to be here for this. He doesn’t dislike Crowley, not personally, anyway. It’s just that he is Fallen. He was cast out of the Host.

The thought anchors him. Yes, exactly: someone _cast him out._ Someone made that call, someone far smarter than Aziraphale, adhering to a great, omniscient plan.

Of course. It’s all ineffable.

Comforted by his piety, the angel glances heavenward - and only then does he see it.

The creature from the garden is perched high on a rooftop, watching. Aziraphale shivers, instantly spooked. The silhouette is uglier than he remembers, the gnarled wings open and limned in moonlight, the eyes burning like two oil lamps in the dark. Later, gargoyles on churches will remind him inexorably of this moment, that stooping shape, that opaque glare, as it views the torment far below.

The crowds surge forward, intent on their prey. The angel does not budge. All of his attention belongs to a solitary demon on a roof. It is opening its mouth now, hissing, clearly upset. For some reason, however, it makes no move to protect its erstwhile companion. In fact, Aziraphale thinks, it seems almost resigned to the course of events. Something about that is significant, although he can’t think what, exactly.

Their eyes meet for a second, but only that, because now the rocks are flying in earnest and Crowley is screaming, his voice distorted with agony. Its attention jerks back to the crowd again. It crouches low in terror.

And then there is an awful noise, one that Aziraphale wishes he could unhear, and Crowley is abruptly and horribly silent.

The creature blinks out of existence.

Aziraphale, standing stunned as the satisfied crowd disperses, begins to understand.

*

It takes Crowley another fifteen hundred years to propose the Arrangement. By then, the thought of an alliance has occurred to Aziraphale too; he is tired, very tired, of accounting for the actions of his enemies as well as the intransigent unpredictability of humans. When the three of them meet, however, he feigns reluctance, feeling that it is the least he can do for the old firm. He recoils at the notion. He dithers. He reminds Crowley, not for the first time, that they are hereditary enemies - oh, dear, and what if Heaven were to find out?

“They won't, angel,” says the demon wearily. “I'm offering you mutually assured destruction. If one of us talks, we both go down. And believe me, my bosses have more inventive punishments at their disposal than yours do.”

He looks exhausted, Aziraphale thinks, examining him. They haven't seen each other terribly often, in the thousand years since Gethsemane, and he wonders just what has been happening to the demon, to make him look so haggard. Have there been more deaths like the one in Samaria?

The thought makes him vaguely nauseous, and he glances away, to where the little monster that is somehow also a piece of Crowley paces at the door. It also looks ragged, each rib more pronounced than the angel remembers. In fact, it is ugly with famine.

Watching it, he forgets to be flighty; his protests die on his tongue. Instead, he hears himself say, in a tone he will later recall as worryingly close to, well, worry: “Crowley – are – are you doing all right?”

“That's not an answer,” the human-shaped part of Crowley observes, his voice as dry as a desert.

“Forget that for a second,” Aziraphale says. He is annoyed with himself, and with Crowley too, although he can't articulate why. “Are you?”

“I'm dandy, angel,” his companion drawls. “Just peachy, really. But I appreciate your concern.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows as he returns the yellow gaze. He pointedly lets his eyes linger on the demon's rags, the telltale mark of scars. After a minute of this, the other gestures, a helpless and frustrated spread of the hands, and when he speaks again his voice is low.

“What do you want me to say?” he says. “I get by. So do you.”

They are quiet after that. He considers that phrase, _getting by._ For some reason, it conjures images of subterranean tunnels in his mind, the sensation of squeezing through outcroppings of rock, shredding clothes, scraping skin. _Getting by._ It does not, he reflects, leave much room for rest or leisure, or happiness.

He sees with sudden clarity that the arrangement Crowley is proposing will give both of them some much-needed breathing space, some room to recover from the strain of their enormous tasks. Then he corrects himself: not both of them. All three of them. Against his will, his eyes dart back to the horribly emaciated creature at the threshold, just for an instant, before returning to Crowley's face.

“I accept your proposal,” he says at last.

Crowley actually smiles. Across the room, the creature makes a startled noise, but for once Aziraphale pays it no attention; he is too busy gaping at a human countenance, normally drawn and reserved, suddenly made beautiful by satisfaction. No, not beautiful – Crowley is _breathtaking_ when he smiles. The snake eyes no longer seem like such a handicap.

“Excellent,” Crowley says. “You won't be sorry.”

“I rather think I will,” Aziraphale mumbles. It is almost inaudible. He has forgotten to breathe.

“Not because of me, then,” Crowley says, and there is something funny in his gaze, a new facet of that shrewd regard, glittering in his eyes like amber. Aziraphale swallows, not knowing how to respond.

“Well,” he manages to say. He is still lacking the appropriate amount of air, and it comes out as a squeak. “We'll see.”

“We could put it in writing, if you like,” the demon offers.

“Oh, no,” and Aziraphale is even more nervous now. Physical evidence? Perish the thought. “That won't be necessary.”

“You _already_ regret this,” Crowley observes sardonically, and when the angel doesn't answer, he huffs a laugh.

“Shut up,” Aziraphale snaps.

“Cheer up,” the demon counters. “Everything's going to be fine.” And then he intones, as if quoting something, “ 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

“What?” says Aziraphale. True alarm crashes over him, so abrupt that his human body sweats. Friendship? But such a thing is ludicrous, impossible. Isn't it?

Crowley looks at him intently for a moment, and then he sighs and turns to go.

“Don't worry, angel,” he says over his shoulder, as the smaller demon crosses the floor to join him. “Really. It was only a joke.”

*

“Have you seen it?” Aziraphale says excitedly, as Crowley approaches. They are meeting for pies and ale, after an interlude of a few decades; he looks into those familiar eyes and discovers, to his shock, that he is glad to see them. Behind the demon, a twin pair of serpentine eyes glows in the shadows, as the creature finds a secluded corner and sits to wash itself.

“See what, angel?”

“The printing press,” says Aziraphale. He is bubbling with happiness.

“I heard something about that,” says Crowley, as he pulls up a chair. “Gutenberg, was it?”

“It's ingenious,” the angel enthuses. “Humans are ingenious!”

Crowley sits and puts on a pair of clouded glasses. Behind them, his expression is inscrutable. “I have thought that, too,” he says at last. “On occasion.”

“Think of the spread of knowledge. And books! Soon anyone will be able to own books!”

“I would have thought,” Crowley remarks, “that your first comment would be about increasing access to the Word of God.”

“Well, that too,” says Aziraphale. He tries to sound sanctimonious, but he feels the sting of the rebuke. Crowley has a point; he should have mentioned that immediately. Well, at least he's only speaking to a demon. No reports of his secular glee will make their way to Heaven's inbox, thank goodness.

Crowley is looking at him closely. Then he laughs. It is a real laugh, full of an answering joy. Aziraphale feels himself flush and is bewildered by it.

“You make an interesting angel, Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

“I don’t really appreciate your tone,” he says curtly, confused by how flustered he feels, and the demon holds up his hands placatingly, still smiling.

“Please,” he says. “No need to get in a snit. I do believe it was a compliment.”

Aziraphale is not exactly mollified, but what can he do? He’s not going to storm off, not when he hasn’t seen Crowley since 1434. After all, he needs to know what the demon’s been up to. It is important to stay informed, he tells himself, about an adversary’s movements.

Three hours later, however, they are almost sodden with ale, laughing themselves sick at Crowley’s tales from a monastery, and the word “adversary” has never been farther from the angel’s mind. He has literal tears standing in his eyes, and Crowley grins widely back at him, the flash of his teeth more sheepish than wicked.

“You are such a serpent,” he manages to gasp. “That poor monk.”

“Trust me, angel.” The other stretches. “He was not even slightly devout.”

 _Trust you,_ Aziraphale thinks, looking back at the lithe figure, and even in his amusement he wonders if he ever will.

He enjoys the reunion, but things do take a turn for the weird when Crowley departs (long after sundown, and yet they met at noon; Aziraphale marvels at his own negligence). Bizarrely, the creature chooses to stay behind. Aziraphale stares at it, and it gazes back, its cool regard tempered by something new, something not unlike curiosity. He is disconcerted by it, a feeling compounded when he turns towards home and the thing has the nerve to trail after him. Meandering in his wake, it passes through the crowded streets as noiselessly as a shadow.

Aziraphale frets. He lengthens his stride; it trots to keep up. He tries to shoo it away; it declines to be shooed. He sobers himself up in an attempt to figure out what to do, but no more ideas come to him. It’s not like he’s going to fend the thing off with a stick. (Should he?)

At last, he plants himself on a street corner, narrowly avoiding being trampled by a tanner carting his wares, and frowns down on it.

“All right,” he says, gesturing. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Passerby look at him oddly. Aziraphale is unsurprised; he learned centuries ago that they cannot see this creature either. It has never been a problem before. The fact that it is now _Aziraphale’s_ problem is exasperating.

The thing itself is silent, looking back at him. He glares at it a moment longer before turning away.

It follows him all the way home.

*

Aziraphale’s imprisonment in the late eighteenth century is, quite frankly, embarrassing. It would be less so if he had been present on the Continent for a good reason, but, unfortunately, vice alone brought him to France. An idiotic craving for pastries, no less. He wonders dispassionately when he'll be discorporated, and how he can explain this predicament to Heaven. Does Heaven even know what a guillotine is? Or a brioche, for that matter?

These are the kind of questions that irk him as he waits patiently for death.

To his chagrin, however, his execution takes a long time. The sun rises and sets and rises again. Lacking diversion, the angel finds his thoughts still wandering. London comes into his mind, and how strange it is that he misses it: the fog, the rain, the smell of the Thames. He thinks about how it almost feels more like a home than Heaven. He wonders if that should worry him, if he should be ashamed of his tactile pleasures. He thinks about Earth, and about mankind, and about his fellow members of the Host, who sometimes seem indifferent to it all.

Most of all, though, he thinks about Crowley.

They are seeing more and more of each other, now. Sometimes the demon will suggest a meeting, and sometimes the angel will. They’ll meet in clubs, or at soirees, or at a park. Once Crowley had brought bread to feed the birds with, and handed Aziraphale a piece without acknowledgment; Aziraphale, quietly confounded by the softness in his face, had simply held it, watching the demon scatter crumbs absently as they talked. He was the one who brought bread the next time, passing across the end of a loaf, their gloved fingers brushing together. The ducks grew fat. Then the ducklings did too, as their meetings changed from less than monthly to once or twice a fortnight.

There has been another change, too. Without exception, the creature now follows Aziraphale home from these clandestine encounters, spending two or three days at a time prowling through Aziraphale’s flat before it departs again. He doesn’t know what that means. He still has no one to ask. Crowley, to the best of his knowledge, has never even seen the damned thing. And the creature itself is impassive, unresponsive, in fact openly disdainful of Aziraphale’s best efforts to evict it.

Aziraphale frowns as he sees it in his mind's eye. Not for the first time, he wonders what it _is_. If it’s the only one. He rather suspects not, a belief now rooted in evidence, for, when he first arrived in Paris, an abiding sense of obligation had steered him first towards Notre Dame. He should have done the thing properly and gone to a service, of course, but once he had seen the façade, a morbid fascination had kept him outside. High above, carved monsters glared back at him: disfigured, disapproving. He had looked at their etched faces in wonderment, thinking how strange the world must be, for a human artist to be privy to some of the same secrets that he has guarded for thousands of years.

As he sits there, motionless in his mildewed prison, his thoughts summon one of the gargoyles, thawed from stone. Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath when he realizes that it is actually present. For a long moment, they look at each other through the bars of his cell, and then recognition ignites like a spark, flaming into satisfaction in the golden gaze.

After nosing at the bars between them curiously, it turns and rubs against them, arching like a cat against the iron. Aziraphale feels the bizarre impulse to reach out and brush the back of his fingers against its skin. He immediately quells the thought, appalled at himself. An unspoken taboo of touch repels him, and he puts his hands firmly in his lap.

Instead, he merely watches it, drinks in the shape of it as it prowls restlessly in the shadows. Even without the tangible comfort of contact, a quiet relief begins to seep through him. He is safe from the guillotine after all.

Sure enough, Crowley finds him within the hour.

*

There are too many revolutions in that century, and the demon, apparently fatigued, sleeps for most of the one that follows. Aziraphale finds this particularly annoying. It's not that he misses him _per se_ , he tells himself, and it’s not that they’re friends, either. It's just that they had found a rhythm of sorts, each carving out a sort of cautious space for the other, and now there is nothing but a cord cut loose. It’s deplorable manners. That’s all. Anyway, Aziraphale doesn’t like change, and this is rather a big one.

Consequently, he is grumpy from 1813 onwards. Sleep, he thinks, embittered. Honestly. Who sleeps for a hundred years?

The answer is Crowley, apparently.

Or at least: the human-shaped part of Crowley. The other part, the little winged creature, does not appear to ever sleep, which the angel finds rather interesting. (If he is grateful, he buries the feeling. At least he can keep tabs on it and keep it from mischief, he thinks.) It stays in London, dropping by Aziraphale’s flat now and then. He observes it out of his window, watching it hunt in the street. It catches mice; once or twice, he sees it devour a songbird. Its voraciousness makes him shiver, but he has long since stopped trying to make it leave.

Tracking its unusual habits can only fill a few of the empty hours, and perhaps unsurprisingly, his book collection also grows enormously over the course of those long decades. Aziraphale hems and haws over this and finally goes to peruse real estate listings. A corner shop in the budding neighborhood of Soho catches his eye: shabby, but relatively spacious, especially when a casual miracle can expand the interior without drawing public attention. Aziraphale pays in cash and begins the laborious process of transferring his hoard. The creature comes to investigate, too, touring the shop with interest.

“There are mice here too,” Aziraphale says, his arms full of books. “Best help me with those.”

It looks up at him coolly. For a crazy minute, Aziraphale thinks it might speak, although, of course, it doesn’t. It does, however, come by more often, and soon there are no mice at all. (Aziraphale has strangely mixed feelings about it. He had been privately toying with the idea of getting a snake.)

Crowley, waking just before the turn of the century, manages to find the angel’s new haunt with no trouble at all, as if he has somehow been there before. When the little bell chimes over the door, Aziraphale looks up into those yellow eyes and drops a teacup, which shatters. The demon grins at him lazily.

“Missed me, have you?” he says, and it’s the _insolence_ of it, the sheer _bravado_ , that makes the angel bristle and snap back at him.

“Oh – have you been gone?”

He can see the displeasure instantly. Quick as a rattlesnake, Crowley catches at his wrist as he turns. The angel gasps. He expects it to burn, expects his arm to be singed with unholy fire, but it is only Crowley’s elegant fingers on his flesh, skin on skin.

They both look at the point of contact. Out among the shelves, Aziraphale hears a quiet, throaty growl.

The demon clears his throat and releases him.

“I have, actually,” he says, as if nothing has happened. “And I’m starving. Are any of our old favorite restaurants still open?”

“No,” Aziraphale says harshly, but the grin is back.

“Then you had better take me to a new one,” says the demon. “And it had better be good.”

*

The Great War, they call it. The moniker is incomprehensible to an angel. There is nothing great about it; yes, the scale is certainly monumental, but why would you ever settle on the adjective great? Why not terrible, or infernal, or damned?

The implications do bother him. As the casualties mount, he finds that he is unwilling to ask just how involved Hell is in the unfolding events. He does bravely mention Tannenberg once in the weeks after the battle, when they meet for drinks, and a tic twitches under the demon's eye; he finishes his whiskey without reply. They do not speak again for months. At last, Aziraphale, remorseful and forlorn, pays his stately Victorian townhouse a call, and finds that it has been let to new owners. The year is 1915, and as time passes it becomes obvious that Crowley has left for some unknown purpose, vanished without saying goodbye.

This time the creature stays even closer. In the years following Crowley's disappearance, it takes up permanent residence in the bookshop. It curls up in the corner when Aziraphale reads, or inspects the biscuits when he lays out a solitary afternoon tea service. It is a solace, and this time, he can even admit that to himself.

Meanwhile, Heaven has not contacted him since 1912. Apparently, the higher-ups have nothing to say, and without direction Aziraphale faces an anxious paralysis. Should he go to the trenches? Should he ally with the Red Cross? Perhaps he should go to Parliament, help them negotiate a peace - but he doesn't understand politics and it would really amount to a plea for pacifism, given by a stranger. Even with his powers of persuasion, it seems futile.

What he really wants to do is look for Crowley. He doesn't know where to start, though. Sometimes he watches the creature as it drowses fitfully in an armchair, and wonders if it knows where he is. If it could lead him there, if he asked.

He doesn't ask.

And then, late one evening – late enough to really be early morning – Aziraphale watches as it jerks out of a reverie, great golden eyes wide and terrified. It bristles, and then opens its fanged mouth and shrieks.

And then, abruptly, its gaunt form disappears, and the angel knows that Crowley, wherever he was for the last few years, is dead.

He reads about the surrender in the papers. The phrase “although sustaining great loss of life” is buried among floral and effusive phrases, praising the bravery of the men at the front. Humans across the continent rejoice, still devoted to their fancy that it is possible to have victors in war. Nationalism and prayer peak together; fellowship is revived. It is a temporary reprieve from the horrors of the last few years.

Aziraphale is bitterly lonely.

The months pass. The seasons change. And then, one evening, he returns to the bookshop to find a living gargoyle perched on his counter, nosing through the papers, and he feels a wash of relief so powerful that he weeps.

It has taken him six thousand years, but now, when he looks at the little creature, he sees with perfect clarity that it isn’t ugly at all.

 

 


	2. The End of the World

 

*

Things are different after that.

They still live together above the bookshop, sharing something that Aziraphale calls a flat and Crowley would call a closet, but now they are truly _together:_ an angel and a little black shadow. It might have been a part of Aziraphale, and not another demon at all. And worse: he doesn’t _mind._

They police their erratic store hours. They buy coffees and read newspapers in claustrophobic cafés. When the angel departs London to perform the occasional assignment, the creature, determined, comes with him. It is almost a second Arrangement, but where Aziraphale was once resigned to the presence of the little monster, he finds nothing but gratitude in himself as the years pass and it does not leave his side.

He really isn’t sure why, but the companionship is dear to him, and so he makes room for this other life that orbits around his own.

He looks for it, now, when he enters a room. He saves it choice pieces of sashimi, the occasional sliver of fruit. He even sets out bowls of cream, as if it were one of the _brúnaidh_ (a people which the angel has never seen, but demons do come in many forms, as he knows well). This last does seem a bit silly, and his little gargoyle is baffled by it – he can see it in the lash of its tail as it inspects the offerings – but in the morning the bowls are always empty, so he continues to fill them.

He is aware of the parallels to pet ownership, although Aziraphale isn’t fool enough to think the creature is either domestic or an animal. Intelligence equal to Crowley's lives in those yellow eyes, a fully souled regard that probably knows Aziraphale better than any angel. Sometimes it even makes him nervous - but what is the alternative? He cannot send it away. He is _fond_ of the damned thing.

It might not be the only demonic entity that he is fond of, either, and that is the part that should be truly concerning.

The human-shaped part of Crowley visits them often now. Every time, the creature’s eyes light up at the sight of the Bentley, and the spindly redhead unfolding from it; every time, Aziraphale, slave that he is to its happiness, locks up the shop and follows it to the car. Together, their trio speeds off into the night, destined for some restaurant or concert or film. He doesn’t need to look at the little creature to know that, every time, its eyes are aglow with joy in the backseat. It is always most content when the three of them are together.

If Crowley feels that same contentment, however, he keeps it carefully hidden. He remains sardonic, his wit drier by the day. He needles the angel, occasionally trying to shock him with his worldliness and his flippancy. In the passenger seat, though, Aziraphale is demure. He cannot be flustered by this demon. Not any more. Whatever Crowley chooses to show him, he knows that there is a piece of this being that likes him a great deal, and in such a secret there is comfort.

The creature fattens. Crowley grows thinner, in keeping with the fashion. Aziraphale looks at them both with affection and thinks that perhaps, against all odds, everything will turn out all right.

Towards the end of the century, he makes the mistake of voicing the sentiment.

They are on one of their outings, sharing desserts after an indulgent dinner at the Ritz, an elegant setting that renders his two companions utterly grotesque. Crowley, as usual, has made no concessions for aesthetic and is sitting sprawled in his chair, drawing the occasional disapproving glance at his skinny jeans and unruly masses of hair. At his feet sits a tiny black monster, returning the glares of the more upscale clientele, although Aziraphale knows they cannot see it. He hides a smile, which is probably good, because Crowley is incensed.

“ ‘Everything will be fine?’” Crowley repeats. He has been complaining about his increasing workload from Hell for a quarter hour. Aziraphale finally interjected with a pacifism, and he can tell, from the demon’s tone, that it was the wrong thing to say. “That’s trite, even for you.”

The creature hops up on the table, prowls towards Aziraphale’s mousse. He edges the plate away. “I only meant –” he begins.

Crowley grips the table.

“Angel,” he says. “You know where all of this is going, don’t you? It’s an arms race, at this point. They’ve picked up a thing or two.”

Aziraphale blinks at him.

“You think the Great War is coming,” he says, slowly.

“Not _right this instant_ ,” says Crowley. “But, well. Isn’t that the point?”

“The _point_ ,” he corrects, “is the triumph of Heaven.” He fiddles with his spoon. “And the salvation of man,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“I wouldn’t take that for granted, if I were you,” Crowley mutters.

“It’s ineffable,” says Aziraphale primly. “And anyway,” he continues, as he nabs a spoonful of Crowley’s crème brulee, “all of that is _centuries_ away, dear boy. I really wouldn’t worry.”

“I wonder,” says the demon, but he pushes the ramekin across.

He should have known better; at this point, Crowley’s instincts have seen him more or less intact through six thousand years. Barely three months after that conversation, Aziraphale and the creature are in the bookshop when the third member of their trio calls with news. His voice is panicked. The Antichrist has just been born.

*

Eleven years pass, attended by another marked change; the creature cannot bear to be out of the same room as Aziraphale. The angel, isolated and frayed as he is by the fear of the coming war, has no problems with this development – he needs the company – although sometimes he looks into the yellow eyes and feels the spear of a nameless sorrow. If it comes to it, Heaven will win, of course; the certainty, however, is bitter. He tries not to think about what will happen to Crowley, or to this small being that runs at his heels as he moves, gripped by a contagious agitation.

He strives to calm himself. He won’t let it happen. Far better to avert the crisis than to dwell on the possibility of their permanent deaths.

And so: Warlock becomes his world. He throws himself into his gardener persona and devotes himself to the child. He tries to pay attention to every detail, every quirk and fascination, asking himself what it means, whether it portends safety. Comparing notes with Crowley is both intoxicating and frightening; he should be seeing the demon less, should be cutting ties and beginning to remove himself emotionally, but he can’t help himself. The premonition of loss hangs on his heart.

It isn’t easy, not for a minute, especially when their carefully constructed levies fail at a catastrophic birthday party. The absence of the Hellhound means the absence of the Antichrist, and the angel begins to understand that they have lost. They spar, splinter, and split with words of venom ( _I don’t even like you! You do –_ ) and Aziraphale returns home with anguish in his soul.

The creature still stays with him, which somehow makes it worse. There is no remonstration in its gaze, only something else, a hunted look that wounds Aziraphale more deeply than the fight. More than ever, he discovers that he wants to hold it. He wants to push his face into its leathery, shadowy skin, and weep for the world.

Instead, he makes cocoa and reads the prophecies of one Agnes Nutter, witch.

It stays.

It watches the emotions on his face, the flickering match of renewing hope struck on this book of answers. It observes the phone calls, the frantic fending off of a witchfinder. And when Aziraphale, cursing, is backed into a celestial circle, its eyes are the last thing he sees before he is discorporated, yellow irises against a background of leaping yellow flame.

That is the instant in which he perceives that the bookshop is on fire.

Terror seizes him. His first thought is not for the books but for this little, loyal figure, his constant companion for at least a hundred years, eyes wide and horrified as it stands outside the sigils, witnessing his death. The flames lick higher, and still it stays.

 _Run, damn you_ , he wants to say, or maybe _Find Crowley – warn him, help him! –_ but in the grip of the portal, he cannot speak, and a minute later he is gone.

*

Aziraphale staggers when Adam gives him his body back. For a moment he worries that he'll go crashing to the tarmac. He does notice that Crowley flinches, making a movement as if to steady him, although of course he is too far away. At his feet the little creature mews, and then streaks towards Aziraphale, black lightning under a roiling sky.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathlessly, to both of them, and Crowley says,

“Hi.”

So much has gone unspoken between them, for so long, that it is enough.

“Is it over?”

“No,” says Crowley. “No. It isn’t, you see. Not at all.”

He’s not wrong. Beelzebub and Metatron arrive. There is a convoluted argument about ineffability. They don’t lose, but they don’t exactly win, either. The forces of Heaven and Hell retreat, and the sky clears a little. Aziraphale takes a minute to breathe the clean air before he repeats his question, praying for a different answer.

Crowley’s lips quirk humorlessly; he is truthful, even now. “No, angel,” he says. “Not for us, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale’s stomach sinks. The demon is right. They are rebels by any measurement, and Aziraphale’s carefully guarded secret alliance is exposed. Mutual destruction, Crowley called it once. Although – and the thought comes suddenly, as he looks at Crowley’s profile, at the ash and blood on his face – it will all have been worth it. He would make the same choices again.

The thought is dizzying, and as he sways, Adam turns and looks at them. 

“I don’t think you need to go worryin’,” he says, his young voice cryptic. “I know all about you three.”

And Aziraphale realizes, with a jolt of awe, that the child is looking from him, to Crowley, to the creature crouching between them, tail lashing.

“What?” says Crowley, bewildered.

“Later,” says Aziraphale. There isn't _time_.

Unfortunately, when a hot wind stirs up the scent of sulfur, he suddenly perceives that there might not be a _later,_ either.

They look at each other. The world narrows to the three of them, two pairs of golden eyes and Aziraphale’s pulse skipping in his throat. It has a queer sort of poetry, he thinks; this was how it began, after all.

He holds out his hand, and Crowley takes it.

“I'd just like to say,” he says. His chest aches. “That if we don't get out of this, that I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you bo –”

“And I'd just like to say,” Crowley says, all in a rush, as if he's worried that he won't have enough time to get it out, “that I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.”

He manages to give that old, brilliant, careless smile. It takes Aziraphale's breath away, even now.

Trying to remember to breathe, he looks at their joined hands. He never, he thinks, would have guessed that their paths would lead them here: a union in the face of apocalypse. He squeezes hard. Crowley returns the pressure until it's painful, until the knuckles grate together. It makes Aziraphale laugh, although there are tears in his eyes: it is the first time the demon has ever hurt him.

They turn and walk towards Hell, and suffering, and death, two human-shaped figures and one beast, all weighted down by fear and yet still upright, their three pairs of wings spread wide.

It is a magnificent end.

*

Except that it isn’t the end, of course – no thanks to any of them.  

They convene in Crowley's flat, too exhausted to be delighted with their survival. Self-congratulation can come later, Aziraphale reflects. For now, the two of them with human livers have decided to drink themselves silly.

“S'pose we should be grateful,” Crowley is slurring. “Wrong boy, wrong house. Hamster for a dog.”

“Hamster?” says Aziraphale. He is distracted by the winged creature, which sits wearily in the corner of the living room, apparently content to be removed from the proceedings. It looks nothing at all like a hamster. He thinks he probably misheard.

“Like you said,” Crowley hiccups. “If we'd been at all competent. If it hadn't been a hamster. At the party. Great big. Great big mess of buggerall.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Crowley,” he says. “When on earth was there a hamster?”

“And instead,” says Crowley, sounding reverent. His eyes are far away. “He was just a kid.”

“I don't think,” says the angel, refilling their glasses, “that you can use the word 'just' to describe Adam.”

“Hell of a human.”

“Well, _yes,_ ” says Aziraphale. “Think about it,” and Crowley laughs.

“To Adam,” he hoots drunkenly, raising his glass. And then he remembers something, and laughs again. “ ’S really a shame he can't count.”

“What?” This is another mystery, though inferior to the hamster.

“Didn’t you hear him?” Crowley says. “ ‘Don’t you go worrying,’ or whatever it was.”

“ 'The three of you,'“ Aziraphale echoes, suddenly understanding. He feels a piercing sadness, watching the demon finish his wine. It occurs to him for the first time that, lacking both an angel's Grace and the companionship of his other self, Crowley is very acutely alone.

“Three,” the demon repeats, and he smirks as he reaches for the bottle again. “Three! So stupid.”

“It’s not,” the angel says, and his companion glances at him, brow furrowing, as if he can sense that something is wrong. Well, he probably can. They’re close enough, at this point.

“Angel?” he says. “All okay?”

He hesitates only a moment; he is still thinking about everything they've been through. It's long past time, he can see that now. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and sets down his glass. He prays for forgiveness. And then he says the words.

“Adam wasn’t wrong,” he says, “because I can see it too.”

“See _what?_ ” says Crowley, in bafflement.

Aziraphale begins to explain.

*

It is slow. It is awkward. There is a lot of history. He even tells the bit about the stoning, although it makes the blood burn in his cheeks; he is abashed by his passivity, now. No, that’s too mild, he thinks. He is sick with guilt. He knows now that, in his place, the demon would never have stood aside, not for a minute, not for an instant. He should have acted that night in Samaria, should have shoved aside the crowds and –

Well. It was long ago. There is nothing he can do except make himself go on.

When he finishes, Crowley is staring at him, long since sobered up. Aziraphale folds his hands in his lap and waits.

And then the other laughs, his voice high with incredulity and delight.

“What a yarn, angel,” he says. “And which of your books is this from?”

“I'm not lying to you,” Aziraphale says. If he were, he would gladly paint himself in a better light. His face is still hot with shame.

“You expect me to believe,” says Crowley, dryly, “that some kind of … dragon thing has dogged my steps since _Eden?_ ”

 _My_ steps, Aziraphale thinks. Perhaps he told it wrong.

“All right, Aziraphale,” says the demon, plainly humoring him. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair. “Walk me through it. Where is it now?”  

“It’s here.”

He can’t help it; his eyes dart to the corner where it sits watching them, a prince bespelled into fiendish form. Its yellow eyes shine in the darkness.

Unwillingly, Crowley turns to look. His face is blank as he scans the shadowy recesses of the room. “Angel,” he says. The amusement in his voice is gone. “What exactly are you playing at?”

“I don't know why you can't see it,” Aziraphale says sadly. “I really wish you could.”

“I can't see it,” Crowley retorts, “because there's _nothing there._ ”

“There is.”

Aziraphale, suddenly understanding how to win this argument, gets to his feet. He looks again at the creature, which shifts its weight in anticipation as the angel does something he has never done before; he crouches, extending a hand towards it, beckoning.

He finds that he is fearless, crossing this threshold at last. The creature is a part of Crowley, yes – and it belongs with him.

For the second time that day, it runs to him.

The contact is electric. It reminds him of fingers on his wrist in the bookshop, that feeling of fire without burning. The being twines around his hand, arching its back, nuzzling into his palm. It is curiously satisfying to touch, after all this time. Its hide is different than he expected, almost satiny, not leathery at all. He strokes it gently. The creature purrs.

Aziraphale hesitates, and then picks it up.

It is even more of a pleasure to hold. He cannot believe he once found this creature revolting. True, it’s all angles and teeth, but it has a coiled elegance, a sort of haughty physicality, and it’s marvelously warm and heavy in his arms. Its eyes glow, as if some long-harbored hunger has been satiated. It rubs its cheek fervently against Aziraphale’s vest, perhaps scratching an itch, perhaps not.

He looks up, to discover that Crowley has tensed, eyes wide. Muscles cord his throat and jump in his jaw. He is staring at Aziraphale, and then at his splayed hands. He shivers. Something visceral plainly has him in its grasp.

“I don’t believe it,” he says, and it’s a lie, because he comes closer, irresistibly drawn. He stretches out a hand, blind, following the shape insinuated by the angel’s stance. His fingertips brush the critter. Aziraphale can see by the way he stops, now visibly trembling, that he can feel it, this unearthly skin, ribbed with scars like Crowley’s own self.

“You can’t see it, and yet it’s real to you,” Aziraphale says. He purses his lips. “I wonder what that means?”

Crowley’s face shows terror writ plain, the miosis of the pupils almost invisible.

“Aziraphale,” says the demon, and his voice cracks. “Put it down.”

Aziraphale stares at him.

“Put it down,” Crowley repeats, “ _please._ ”

He doesn’t mean to be cruel. Truly, he doesn’t. But there is something else in Crowley’s eyes besides fear, a naked longing that makes something tighten in Aziraphale’s gut. He has never seen this expression before, not once, not in six thousand years.

Feeling rash, recklessly heedless, he runs his hand over the creature’s back.

Crowley’s mouth slackens. He exhales – no, he _pants_. His whole body twangs towards Aziraphale like a plucked string, a shudder of carnality. His eyes are suddenly heavily lidded, the pupils dilating again, hazy focus on Aziraphale’s mouth.

The creature noses into Aziraphale’s chest. It’s growling softly, aggression without anger. It wants.

“No,” Crowley breathes. “No.”

Carefully, Aziraphale sets it back on the floor. It yowls, staring up at him beseechingly, but he has eyes only for the entity in human form, as Crowley is as white as a sheet and plainly shivering.

They stand in silence for a minute. Aziraphale is aware that he has blundered somehow, but he isn't sure how, he doesn't _understand –_

“Six thousand years,” the demon hisses. “You've known about this for six thousand years?”

It's rhetorical. Aziraphale is silent, beginning to feel frightened himself. Crowley still can't see the creature; his panicked eyes are scanning the room as he backs away, feels for the door, fumbles for the knob.

“Crowley,” the angel whispers. Imploring.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Crowley spits. And then he flees.

*

Aziraphale does the only thing that he knows to do in a crisis, and makes tea. 

Crowley doesn't have tea things, of course, it's not Stylish, but that is not an impediment to an exhausted angel. He opens the packet of miracled Darjeeling with fingers that shake only a little. When his summoned kettle whistles, he pours the boiling water; after another couple of minutes, he fishes out the teabag, laying the spoon carefully in the sink. He carries the mug to the table and sits down. He warms his hands on it. He breathes in the steam.

Then he looks at the creature. It looks back at him, silent.

“All right,” he says. “What are you?”

And then, to his utter horror, it _laughs._

“Oh, angel,” it says, in a voice like Crowley’s, and yet unlike too. “Tonight, after six thousand years.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. He is learning a deeply unpleasant truth about himself, one first unearthed by the events leading up to Lower Tadfield, and made more salient now by this revelation: He has never been good at questioning things.

“You can speak,” he says hollowly.

“At your service.”

“Do you have a name?”

For a moment, he thinks it isn’t going to answer. It cocks its head to the side, as if considering.

“Atys,” it says at last. Aziraphale frowns. There are several literary and mythological characters by that name, all tormented figures. It watches him, and its voice grows bitter. “Crowley chose his name, so I did, too. This was the most appropriate one.”

“Atys,” Aziraphale repeats. He isn’t sure what to say. Every possible response is more nonsensical than the last. “I, ah. Well. Lovely to meet you?”

“Don’t be a fool, Aziraphale,” says the creature, looking up at him with those yellow eyes. “You and I know each other very well indeed.”

“You’re him,” Aziraphale says. He has never been more certain of anything. “In a way.”

“I am,” it agrees. Mocking him. “In a way.”

“But what _are_ you?” he persists.

The creature sighs and stretches, unsheathing shining pearly claws as it moves, sinuous. Aziraphale’s breath hitches a little. The urge to touch it again is strong, but he resists.

“Do you know what it’s like when an angel Falls?” it says at last.

Aziraphale stiffens. He is not going to like this. “No.”

They regard each other for a long moment. The snakelike tail lashes and unlashes; Atys despises whatever it’s seeing in his eyes.

“No,” it says. “I suppose not.”

But angels are stubborn, and this one waits without speaking, as patient as God. The mug of tea is cool in his hands by the time it sighs again, relenting.

“Grace,” it says. “Obviously that gets stripped away.”

“Yes.”

“It hurts.”

“I can imagine.”

“You _can’t_ ,” it says forcefully, and he subsides, chastened. “It’s consuming, angel. It’s like tongues of fire in your soul. The anchor torn loose. The taproot severed. All you are left with is the unquenchable thirst for it. A yearning. A desire so powerful that it has a life of its own.”

He is silent.

“I am that desire,” says Atys. “Made flesh.”

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Aziraphale blinks, looking down at the little creature, feline, serpentine, alien.

“You’re Crowley’s _desire_ ,” he says flatly.

“Correct.”

And then Aziraphale connects the dots. He feels his eyes widening.

“But,” he says helplessly. “But. You’re always with _me._ ”

He doesn’t need to hear the answer, nor does he want to hear the agony in its voice when it replies, but it does anyway.

“Yes,” it says. “I am.”

*

Atys comes to him that night. Aziraphale is reading on Crowley's sterile sofa when it pads up to him, arches its back against his legs. Their taboo of touch is dissolved, yet Aziraphale can’t bring himself to reach for it again, not when he remembers Crowley’s shudder earlier, as Aziraphale –

He forces his mind away, but the thought draws him back, honey for flies. If he touched this creature now, would Crowley know? Would he feel it?

His skin prickles. He can’t do it. Surely it would be a violation of trust.

Atys makes the decision for them both.

In a single, lithe bound, it leaps into his lap. It sits, hunching, kneading his thighs, regarding him with that cool yellow stare. Aziraphale lifts a cautious hand and the creature nuzzles into it, pushes its face into the palm, starved for affection. He is suddenly dizzy with pity, and regret, and the slow, dawning awareness of his own desires, long repressed though they have been.

“Help me,” he says to it. “Help me fix this.”

But when he wakes from a rare sleep the next morning, with Atys curled in his arms, the other demon is still gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many characters with the name Atys exist. Among them is one also named Tantalus, a figure in Greek mythology who faces eternal punishment, from which we get the word "tantalize."  
> Thoughts welcome as always.


	3. The Rest of Their Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sincere thank you to everyone who has commented / comments. Your insights and thoughts are adored. I'm really pleased that this little earworm of a fic struck a note with several other people.  
> There has already been a fic inspired by this one, which is also a delight. My blessings to anyone who wants to play in this universe.

 

*

Aziraphale waits a few more hours, just to be sure, and then, around midday, he lets himself out, and locks the door behind him. He stands for a minute, hand on the doorknob, trying to determine what to do. At his feet, Atys looks up at him searchingly, but, although the angel returns its gaze, it does not choose to offer him any suggestions. He resents this, and almost opens his mouth to say as much. He catches himself in time. No point in alienating yet another piece of Crowley.

He does have a hunch, though, and for now it’s enough to begin. From the demon’s luxurious Mayfair apartment, it’s a ten-minute anxious trot to St. James, and Aziraphale tries to compose the appropriate ingratiating phrases on the way. Both exercises prove to be fruitless. He still has no idea what he’s going to say when he arrives, and he is also embarrassingly out of breath, not that either fact matters: the crowds are sparse today, and he can already tell that Crowley is not among them.

Aziraphale takes the time to compose himself before he patrols the length of the park, wanting to be sure. Every slender gentleman in a dark coat makes him flinch, but every time, it’s a stranger’s face above the collar, a less vibrant shade of crimson catching the light. Atys stays close, more or less, although it gives Aziraphale a bit of a fright when it lunges briefly to catch a mallard; panicking, the bird quacks and opens its wings, hurling itself into the water, and the creature, vexed, comes slinking back, its yellow eyes hooded with disgust.

Crowley still does not appear.

They find the bench, the one that has always had significance for their party of three. Bereft of their third member, they sit anyway, although it really feels almost blasphemous to be there without him. Aziraphale watches the movement of the water, the parades of ducklings, the white and black wings of a mismatched pair of swans. And then he breaks.

“All right,” he says to Atys. He draws a few quizzical stares, talking to an apparently empty park bench, but it isn’t the first time they’ve been in this situation, and he suspects it won’t be the last. “Where is he?”

“I do think that’s cheating,” Atys says, sounding amused. “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

“But _you’re_ still here,” Aziraphale points out, reasonably, looking down at it. If Crowley’s desire was to have nothing to do with him, then wouldn’t it leave?

“Oh, very _good,_ angel,” the little winged creature purrs. “I knew you’d be a quick study.”

The angel waves this aside, impatient. “So tell me.”

“No, I don’t think so,” says Atys. “But I’m sure you’ll guess, eventually.” It yawns. “It’s where I would go.”

*

Crowley is standing in the middle of the restored bookshop, lit by a slanting ray of late afternoon light. He doesn’t turn at the tinkle of the bell; instead, he remains as still as a statue, looking up at the stacks, the staircase, the haphazard piles of books. Warily, the angel approaches, stopping just behind him, close enough to watch motes of dust settle in his hair. Close enough, in fact, to reach out and run his fingers through it, that lush thick scarlet inviting touch. He clasps his hands behind his back. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet.

When Crowley speaks, his voice rasps, as if he hasn’t spoken since the fight.

“I thought this place burned.”

“It did,” says Aziraphale, remembering. He shivers a little. “I was a bit worried it would take you with it.”

“It nearly did,” Crowley says absently. “I mean, the roof came down on me.”

Aziraphale frowns. They are speaking about two different things. But the demon is already going on.

“When I woke up,” he says, and the angel knows he is referring to his century-long nap, “I knew where to find you. Somehow. I knew to come here.”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, as his apprehension returns. “Part of you was living with me.”

“I didn’t wonder how I knew,” Crowley says. “I just knew you were here. In Soho.” He is quiet for a minute, and then says, “1918.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers. “Then, too.”

Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets. He is still looking at the shelves of books. Aziraphale wishes he could see his face. He looks down at Atys, but the creature is impassive, watching its other self, the palpable struggle with emotion.

“I’m still angry with you, you know.”

“I know.”

“You should have told me,” says Crowley, and there it is, the undercurrent of fury. “You absolutely should have told me. A hundred times over.”

“I know that too,” Aziraphale admits. “Believe me, I should have done a lot of things differently.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Crowley,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

At that, the demon in human form finally turns, and Aziraphale feels a great leap in his chest; he cannot tell if it is anxiety or hope. Crouched at his feet, Atys makes a plaintive noise; he glances down at it again, and then back up, his heart racing as he faces the scrutiny of two matching pairs of eyes, the shrewd regards of Crowley and the desire that he cannot see – or refuses to.

Sudden conviction blossoms inside him.

“What if I could introduce you?” he says.

“What?” says Crowley.

The idea is slowly taking shape, unfurling its petals, spreading its roots. “I mean,” Aziraphale says. “If you could see it for yourself.”

“I can’t see it, you know that,” says the other impatiently.

“I think you might be able to.” He is thinking hard. “I think, if you close your eyes –”

Crowley is still staring at him, but after a moment he obeys. Aziraphale exhales, wondering if this is going to work. The whole thing suddenly seems too much like a fairy tale, hung with baubles, frosted with symbolism. Still. It’s worth a try.

“All right,” he says. “If Atys is –”

“Atys?”

“That’s its name.”

“Oh, _perfect,_ ” Crowley drawls. “How domestic of you.”

Aziraphale lets that go for the moment. “If Atys is your desire –”

Crowley interrupts again, sounding scandalized, although, to his credit, he still doesn’t open his eyes. “Angel,” he says. “My _what_?”

“Let’s just assume that I have more information than you do, shall we?” Aziraphale snaps. “Look, if I explain to you what it is, you should be able to see it, shouldn’t you?”

“You’re an expert on invisible demons now?”

“It’s not _invisible,_ ” says the angel, exasperated. “It’s _you._ I think you’re just won’t admit it to yourself when you want something, and that’s why you can’t see it –”

“ _You_ don’t know what I want,” says Crowley, his voice dangerously low.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale retorts, at the end of his patience, “but I rather think I do.”

At that, Crowley opens his eyes. The angel blushes under the intensity of his gaze, which is extremely annoying; until now, his own desires have not been the ones that are transparent. He suddenly wonders if this is how Crowley feels, ensnared by a physical betrayal of his thoughts. Hiding his confusion, he begins counting items off on his fingers.

“Your Grace,” he says shortly. The demon scowls at that, and opens his mouth, but Aziraphale hurries on. “Companionship. And,” he swallows, “and me.”

“ _Aziraphale,_ ” says Crowley, stricken.

“Hush,” says Aziraphale. “We’ll talk about that in a minute.”

“But –”

“Just think about it,” he says desperately, approaching. Crowley backs away and is brought up short against a table display of Pratchett novels. Aziraphale does not yield, and the demon’s breath comes more rapidly as the distance between them closes. “If you can just make your peace with it, I think you’ll be able to –”

“Aziraphale –”

“Crowley,” he says. “ _Try._ ”

Crowley closes his eyes. He is visibly struggling to calm himself. Aziraphale lets the minutes pass, lets the demon review his options in silence. Eventually, the ragged breathing slows. He thinks that might be a good sign. He isn’t sure. He waits.

When Crowley opens his eyes again, he is looking straight at Atys.

*

The seconds tick by. Aziraphale is recalling a gathering storm, a morning in a peerless garden. A serpent turning away from him, evaluating the undergrowth; a little creature with wings, looking back at them, mirth glittering in its golden eyes. He remembers how nervous he felt, that first day, meeting that wry, discerning stare. He wonders if Crowley is humbled by it, this little miracle of a moment, as he finally confronts the intelligence of his conscious other self.

And then Crowley says,

“Angel, that thing is hideous.”

“It is _not_ ,” says Aziraphale hotly, the reverie shattered, and Atys laughs and says,

“Nice opener.”

Crowley nearly falls backwards into the book display in his haste to get away from it. “It talks?” he says, agog. “It – did we know it could talk?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. He is still disgruntled. “Um. That part is new.”

“We had to discuss a few things,” says Atys, looking up at Crowley mildly. “While you were out.”

“Oh, marvelous,” says Crowley, staring back at it. His expression is somewhere between horrified, fascinated, and repulsed. “Really excellent. Discuss what, may I ask?”

“What I am,” says Atys.

“And what is that?”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and both pairs of yellow eyes turn to him. “I already told you; it’s _you._ ”

He hesitates, and then, this time with full understanding of what it means, and what it will lead to, he crouches and opens his arms as if to embrace the little demon.

Atys springs into his grasp.

There is a great clatter of falling books. The other demon, scrambling to get away from them, has knocked over part of the display. He doesn’t appear to have noticed; he is sprawled in the ruin of the meticulously arranged novels, his yellow eyes wide, his breathing already labored, as he shivers under a touch not yet on his own skin.

“I thought we established,” he chokes out, “that you _shouldn’t do that_ –“

“It’s a part of you,” Aziraphale repeats, choosing to ignore this. “I – I think it’s a manifestation,” oh dear, can he really say it? He closes his eyes briefly, fighting the vertigo, and then continues, “Of what you want.”

“So of course you assume,” Crowley says through gritted teeth, “that that means that I–”

“Which is lucky for you, really,” Aziraphale interjects. Carefully, he frees a hand and reaches for one of Crowley’s, lacing their fingers together. “Because,” he goes on, “the rest of us have to choose to express the things we desire. And, well.” He clears his throat. “Some of us find that, um. Rather difficult.”

Crowley stares at him. Aziraphale watches the understanding come, the incredulity, the commingled fear and wonder. He holds the little creature more tightly against himself and Crowley exhales, disbelieving.

“You’ll Fall,” he says weakly.

Aziraphale, who has never been decisive about anything in his life, considers this, and then shrugs.

“Maybe I will,” he says, and Crowley’s eyes barely have time to widen before the angel, with Atys still in his arms, leans forward enough to kiss him.

*

The next few minutes blur together in Aziraphale’s memory. Most potent is, of course, the scent of Crowley throughout it all, or rather the taste of him, as heady as wine. At some point, there is also a hand on the nape of his neck, a thumb in the hollow under his jaw, careful and wondering pressure at the pulse point, feeling it jump. Then comes a low, quiet, hungry sound, from one of the two demons, although afterwards Aziraphale will never be sure which. And then, at last, Atys says, “All right, _all right_ , put me down, will you,” in a voice that is amused and annoyed together, and he perceives they are crushing it between them. He sets it down with a murmur of apology. As it darts away, he thinks he hears it say _idiots._

Crowley pays it no attention. His yellow eyes belong only to Aziraphale, the heat rising in his face, the halo of fair hair that he is sure is already disheveled. He swallows, seeing the fire in their depths.

“I – I had better lock up,” he stammers, backing away.   

“Yes,” Crowley says quietly, and the golden gaze is unwavering. “Yes, I think you had better.”

Aziraphale draws the shades and flips the sign to closed, and they make their way up the narrow stairwell to the angel’s flat. When the door swings open, Crowley pauses at the threshold; Aziraphale realizes that he has never been here before, somehow, and yet the demon touches the arm of a chair with the awe of recognition.

“I know this place,” he murmurs. “I thought I dreamed this place.”

“Really?” says the angel tersely. “We’re talking about this now?” and Crowley laughs and hooks a finger into the collar of his shirt.

“No,” he whispers. “You're right, we aren’t talking at all.”

Aziraphale deliberately tangles his fingers in the scarlet hair and drags him closer. Crowley’s mouth is hot and wet and ravenous, and as it moves from his lips to fasten under his jaw, the angel braces himself and lets his head tilt back, hearing himself panting as if from a great distance. Crowley makes soft, sibilant noises in reply, as he tugs Aziraphale’s shirt loose and slides his hands up under the fabric.

Conventional wisdom holds that celestial beings are sexless unless they make an effort. It makes no allowance for a specific exception, which is apparently that, under a demon’s expert hands, the feat takes no effort at all. The revelation makes Aziraphale choke, and in answer, Crowley’s mouth makes the shape of the word _angel_ against his throat. It might have been amusing, under different circumstances: he has never felt less angelic in his life.

They stumble to the bedroom, crash down on the shabby quilt spread over an unused mattress. Crowley pauses, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s breastbone, and the angel holds him, feeling him tremble, sensing the sudden rush of doubt.

“If,” the demon begins, and he lets out a shaky breath. “If you –”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale says firmly, and kisses him.

Crowley doesn’t speak much after that, until about an hour later, when, abruptly, as the angel moves over him, he says _Aziraphale_ in a low and broken voice, and arches his back, and shudders.

Six thousand years, Aziraphale thinks, looking down at him. They might have had this for six thousand years.

Then again, they might never have had it at all.

*

Night finds them stretched diagonally across the bed, the quilt and sheets rumpled under their human bodies and damp with sweat. Crowley is on his back; Aziraphale is sprawled over him, heat radiating from the long line where their bodies meet, his mouth pressed against the prominent jut of Crowley’s collarbone. The demon is tracing a thumb drowsily up and down Aziraphale’s spine, an absent but possessive path that makes him shiver, just a little.

Both of them are watching Atys, who is lying in an armchair, satiated, fast asleep. The angel, who did not think it ever slept, finds this development fascinating, although after some consideration it does make sense. A desire has been fulfilled; this hungry little being can rest. The thought brings a smile to his lips.

“I can’t believe you let it live with you,” Crowley murmurs. “It is a bit creepy, isn’t it?”

“No,” the angel retorts. “It really isn’t.”

“Well,” and Aziraphale can hear the amusement in his voice, “you’ve always had terrible taste in aesthetic.”

“True,” he says innocently. “As evidenced,” and he runs a hand down Crowley’s bare stomach, which ripples with laughter.

“Harsh,” says the demon, but when Aziraphale lifts his face for a kiss, the yellow eyes are soft with affection.

They watch the rise and fall of the black hide.

“Do other demons have them, d’you think?”

“Dunno,” says Crowley sleepily. “Don’t really know much about other demons’ desires, do I?”

“It can’t be the only one,” Aziraphale muses. “Have you ever been to Notre Dame?”

“Someday,” Crowley yawns, “when I’m more awake, you should really explain that connection to me.”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, his eyes closing. “The gargoyles.”

“Oh, sure,” Crowley mumbles. “The gargoyles.”

Aziraphale has never fallen asleep in someone’s arms before, but as he listens to Crowley’s breathing change, his last conscious thought is that he could get used to it.

*

The next several months are unlike any chapter in Aziraphale’s life thus far.

He is familiar with loneliness – he remembers the end of the first World War with a pang – but as time goes on, he begins to wonder if he had actually been lonely for the entirety of the previous six millennia, albeit without realizing it. Oh, Atys had kept him company for the tail end of it, of course, and he had made the occasional pleasant acquaintance, and Crowley himself had been present in the background throughout it all. It wasn’t as though he had existed in perfect solitude.

But now –

The three of them don’t live together, but that fact is formality only. Aziraphale discovers that he has a weakness for Crowley’s indulgent bed, and all the things attendant to such a luxury. Other times they’ll drink in the back room of the bookshop and sleep entwined on the narrow sofa. After the rare night spent apart, Crowley comes by with croissants or danishes, pretending to barter them in exchange for kisses, which in truth are the sweeter of the two. They go to the park, the angel taking the demon’s arm as Atys runs ahead; they attend the opera, snug against each other as the curtain rises. They share desserts. They walk the Thames. They have quite a lot of sex.

It is happiness so profound that it is frightening, and sometimes the angel does catch those emotions, too, in Crowley’s expression, a sketch of disbelief and worry visible even through the sunglasses. He knows the feeling. How can they have stumbled into this? It is divine, yes, but it feels painfully ephemeral: it is something that can be lost.

There is no answer to give. He has no intention of leaving intentionally. He thinks that he will have to be torn away, if it comes to it.

But time goes on, and oh, bliss: it doesn’t come to it. No one even seems to care. For once, Heaven’s ambivalence about matters of the flesh plays in his favor. He also doesn’t Fall, even though Aziraphale is sure there is an element of sin in such pleasure. He is deeply relieved about this, and then queerly sad about it too; no one appears have an inkling that such a joy is even possible.

He does wonder about the Almighty. Bland bureaucracy of Heaven aside, there is obviously a higher power that might have a thing or two to say about an angel keeping a demon in his bed. But, against this fear, Aziraphale holds the word _ineffable_ like a talisman against his heart. Surely there is room for them to be together, a tiny quirk of the universal plan, a forgotten footnote that declares _lovers_ and strikes through the part that says _star-crossed_. Surely some things are meant to be, or if they aren’t, can be forgiven.

At the moment, though, it doesn’t really matter. Crowley is his. Atys is his. He has found happiness, and for the time being, at least, he is being permitted to keep it.

Which makes it all the more alarming when, one day, without warning, the little creature disappears.

*

He notices right away, of course. He is so used to it by now that its absence is as eerie as a missing shadow. He looks for it, all over the bookshop, and then again when he arrives at Crowley’s flat that evening, but it is nowhere to be seen. There are no yellow eyes glowering under the table, no little paws batting at the houseplants. He is driven almost to distraction, looking for it, until Crowley presses a wineglass into his hand and says, cheerfully, “All right, angel?”

“Oh, yes,” says Aziraphale, his throat tight. “Of course, yes, everything’s fine.”

He tries to dismiss it as a fluke, but after a few weeks he has to admit that something is definitely wrong. The doubt is insidious. Never before has he considered the drawbacks of being able to see a lover’s passions in the flesh, but now he is utterly trammeled by them. If the creature has vanished, then what does it mean? Does Crowley not desire him any more? Or is it simply that he wants something else, or someone else, more than he wants the angel? No, he tells himself, that cannot be true; Crowley is still attentive, still as ardent as that first afternoon in the bookshop. He does want Aziraphale; he _must_ want Aziraphale. Mustn’t he? (But then: where is Atys?)

Weeks become months, and the worry festers. At last, heart in his throat, he tries to ask Crowley about it, but the demon has still not warmed to his little counterpart, and he is busy on a slender computer when Aziraphale inquires if he’s spotted it anywhere.

“No, not recently,” he says absently. “Good riddance.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, trying to sound lighthearted. “I only wondered.”

Something in his voice catches Crowley’s attention; he looks up, frowning, considering the angel for a moment. Then he shuts the laptop with a snap and comes towards him, his pupils beginning to dilate. Aziraphale, who knows what this particular expression precedes, feels his mouth go dry. His eyes drop to Crowley’s mouth as the demon crowds him slowly against the wall.

“Don’t be a fool, Aziraphale,” he says, softly, in a way that reminds the angel strongly of the missing demon. He swallows, feeling the jut of Crowley’s hipbones under his fingertips, and doesn’t answer. The other moves until their navels are flush, until Aziraphale can feel the rise and fall of that stomach against his own, the slow draw of air that they don’t technically need.

Their noses brush together. The angel trembles. For a second, they teeter on the precipice.

Then Crowley descends, and, under the fire of his mouth, Aziraphale briefly forgets to be worried.

The sex is as good as it has ever been. But Atys still does not return.

*

“I think we should go for a drive,” says Crowley, too casually.

Aziraphale looks up from his crossword, frowning. It is a beautiful Sunday morning, hours which, he has learned, provide the demon a precious window in which to sleep, or laze about his flat with coffee and the endless entertainment of internet forums. Today, however, his companion is uncharacteristically restive. He stands at the window, looking out over the London skyscape, a curious tension in his shoulders and stance.

“All right,” he says, slowly.

“Bring something to eat,” Crowley suggests. “In case you get peckish. We’re going a bit far afield.”

“Oh, yes? And where are we going?”

The demon throws him a look that Aziraphale cannot read, and doesn’t answer.

Aziraphale’s curiosity does not diminish as they barrel through the English countryside. Crowley still has a contagious, frenetic energy; he fiddles with the radio dial, drums his hand on his thigh, rubs his fingers across his mouth. They take the A3 past Guildford, and then through Godalming, and then they turn towards Petsworth and the South Downs. It is a full two hours before Crowley slows, easing the car off the main road into a long and battered driveway.

Mystified, Aziraphale realizes that they have arrived in front of a squat and cheerful cottage, apparently uninhabited, a sale sign swinging in the yard. Crowley parks. Avoiding the angel’s eyes, he climbs out of the Bentley, and the other follows, strangely nervous, watching him make a complicated gesture over the front door. The deadbolt slides back, and although questions crowd on Aziraphale’s lips, he bites them back and steps after Crowley into the shuttered house, blinking in the dim light, letting his eyes adjust.

And then his breath catches, because Atys is curled on the window seat.

“Hello,” it says to them. “Took you long enough.”

“You know, you can vanish again whenever you like,” Crowley says to it, sounding irritated. “That would honestly be fine.”

It bares its teeth, the caricature of a grin. “Sorry,” it says. “The price of being self-aware. You could try being obtuse again, and see if I go away?”

“Such insolence,” Crowley notes. “In my day, the littlest demons had to be polite.”

“Liar,” says Atys fondly.

“Who, me?” says Crowley, shooing it off the seat. “Aziraphale, come here.”

Aziraphale can’t speak. This is where Atys has been. Crowley’s desire has literally been living here, in this dilapidated cottage. The knowledge of what that means is singing inside him like a bird, or some other little thing with feathers, perched in the soul.  

“The garden is overgrown, and the fence is in total disrepair, I think it might even be rotting on the western side,” says Crowley, as the angel approaches. The cadence of his voice, normally so suave, is completely off, as if this is a speech he has mentally rehearsed, but never practiced delivering. “But that shouldn’t be too hard to fix. And there’s a room, I think it would make a good study, that looks out over it, lots of natural light, and of course you could change the wallpaper –”

Aziraphale touches his arm, and Crowley stops talking. They look at each other. Inside Aziraphale’s body, the bird takes flight.

“Crowley,” he says. “My answer is yes.”

*

The move is tedious. Aziraphale has imposed restrictions on himself; he can’t bring every book he owns, much as he would like to. He forces himself to sort them into tiers, and then compulsion forces him to sort again, at least twice more, until Crowley, worried, actually comes to check on him. When he learns what the problem is, he laughs until he is weak, supporting himself against the doorjamb.

“Aziraphale, you decided to lease the bookshop as is,” he points out, when he can speak again. “Come on, you’re being ridiculous. You’ll still have all that space!”

“Do you know what happens in a bookshop?” Aziraphale says, scandalized. “Any one of these might be _sold._ ”

He might add that Crowley is also one to talk; the demon has fussed at length over his array of houseplants, terrified that they’ll be traumatized by the transition. At this point, he has trays of succulents arranged in cotton, and bubble-wrapped gardenias, and pots nestled tenderly in other, larger pots. The system looks like the work of a madman to an outsider, but Crowley is defensive whenever Aziraphale broaches the topic of plant resiliency, wondering delicately whether all of the contraptions are really necessary. “You had better believe it, angel,” he says, arms folded. “They’ll give you the slip if you give them an inch.” Aziraphale, torn between exasperation and fondness, lets it go.

The designated day, of course, is bedlam, full of a hundred tiny disasters. They bicker about where the crates should go. They lose the list of boxes. They knock out a piece of drywall with a corner of a chair. Aziraphale stubs his toe. Crowley trips over Atys while unpacking the wineglasses, and somehow the miracle to restore them doesn’t tend to all of the shards, leading to another argument, which continues even after one of them manifests a broom.

After the last of the glass is gone, Crowley sprawls on the sofa (they kept Aziraphale’s, at the demon’s insistence, which was baffling; Aziraphale had always thought he hated the ratty old thing) and blows a long, exhausted, frustrated breath into the cushions.

“This is terrible,” he says, his voice muffled.

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” says Aziraphale. He is tired, and sore, and his human body is sweating grotesquely – and he is happier than he can ever remember being. “It’s _wonderful_.”

Crowley cracks an eye and looks at him, an unwilling smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The angel blushes, suddenly realizing that Atys has appeared and is twining adoringly around his legs, revealing the thoughts behind the other demon’s sly expression.

“Oh, _really,_ ” he says, looking at them both with amusement, but he crosses to the sofa anyway.

*

On the first morning of the rest of their lives together, Aziraphale sets to work on the room that will be his study. He turns the yellow wallpaper to cream, and strengthens the shelves, and opens all of the boxes of books at once. Crowley and Atys come and go, occasionally commenting on his progress, although, lost in his work, Aziraphale barely hears them. Around him, the haven begins to take shape. (It doesn’t look anything like the bookshop in Soho, but that’s quite all right. All things considered, he thinks, it is probably time for a change.)

He loses track of time as he works, and it is creeping towards evening by the time he decides to call it a day. Dusting his hands off, he looks around the cozy little room with satisfaction – and then his eyes drift to the window, where he can see a silhouette distantly, black and angular against the changing firmament, out in the yard, past a ramshackle fence. As he watches, the wind stirs the weeds, revealing a smaller shadow sitting at its feet.

He lets himself out of the back door and goes to them. Only Atys turns to acknowledge him, its yellow eyes blazing, as fiery as the horizon.

“Look at this,” Aziraphale says, lightly, coming up beside them. “The three of us, together, in a garden.”

“Funny end to the story,” says Crowley, his voice distant. “To come full circle, and that.”

The angel doesn’t correct him, but privately he thinks: no, that’s wrong, it isn’t an end. If anything, it’s a second beginning.

“You finish the study?”

“A work in progress, I think,” says Aziraphale.

“Well,” says Crowley. “Plenty of time.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says softly, looking at him. “I’m counting on it.”

They stay out for the sunset, rosy streaks across the sky, the chalk hills blushing pink in the aftermath. Crowley is breathing deeply, as if he has just surfaced from deep waters, as he looks out over the tufts and hollows of the land, this parceled property that now belongs to them. The angel, still watching him closely, takes his hand.

“I love you, you know,” he says quietly. “Both of you.”

To this, there is no reply, but when the demon turns and kisses him, long and sweet and slow, Aziraphale reflects that there is really no need for him to say how he feels.

He has always been able to see it.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In my dreams, you are mine ( as I am yours)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713533) by [SantuariosYue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantuariosYue/pseuds/SantuariosYue)
  * [Ineffable Trio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385955) by [curious_Lissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curious_Lissa/pseuds/curious_Lissa)




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